


Blue, Kind of

by Jinsai_ish



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27283936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinsai_ish/pseuds/Jinsai_ish
Summary: Seen Pan’s Labyrinth? This isn’t that bad, but it deals with the same time period. In other words, this contains references to violence and blood, and a not quite sane España.  Implied Spain/S. Italy depending on how you squint.  Could be read as a stand alone, or a prequel to Aficion.Russia isn’t the only one who doesn’t want children who won’t play nice. Spain, soon after the second Spanish Civil War.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Blue, Kind of

_Y ahora todos ellos que han retomado  
a la fuente que es mas azul  
que lo que nadie haya visto jamas...  
  
Porque yo les quise tanto,  
porque sone mucho,  
porque dije todas las palabras erradas,  
porque he desgastado  
el consuelo de las oraciones..._*  
(Azul, algo asi – Eric Gamalinda)  
  
These days the _cabrero_ doesn’t bring his goats down the path anymore. He knows the soldiers will only steal them to eat, and kill him if he resists. They might kill him anyways, if they don’t like the look of his face, or know about his pretty daughter, or imagine he might have a son who’s run off to join the Maquis. So he stays off the path, even though it means risking scraggly goats from the poorer fields near his house.  
  
Scraggly goats are better than no goats at all, and alive is better than dead. Spain knows this, but he misses watching the old _cabrero_ lead his goats down the road, occasionally using his cane to tap the heel of any that lag behind.  
  
He is trying. Oh Lord, he is trying but it is hard. María, forgive him, but it is hard. The end of the war is only the beginning of his work it seems. There are many who lag behind and he tries to hurry them along for their own good, but sometimes he taps too hard and one goes lame, and what is he to do then? What can one do with a lame goat but roast it and eat it?  
  
When he returns home, beads crunch underneath his boots. His rosary had broken that morning, scattering its beads all over his kitchen floor. All those years when he didn’t know whether he treasured it or despised it, and the string had broken apart as he’d dressed for the day.  
  
Romano would be furious, he thinks, but Romano is no longer here. He has to pick up the beads himself, and starts to do so, but he finds the cross when he looks under the table, scoops it up, and then forgets to continue to clean the rest. There is blood and dirt engrained under his fingernails, enough that the water turns a rusty brown when he washes his hands.  
  
There is a new letter from Lovi on the table, and one from Feliciano too. And one from Ludwig and another from Gilbert, and even one from Arthur. Francis hasn’t written in a while, and he wonders why that is.  
  
When his hands are as clean as they’re going to get, he crosses the kitchen and stokes up the small fire. England’s letter he holds unopened over the flames. They lick hungrily at the corners of the envelope and he watches the cream-colored paper singe to black. His lips curve up into a smile just before he lets the whole thing fall into the fire. Something flickers in the back of his memory, something with the shape and scent of burning ships, but he shrugs it off and finds a chair, dragging the heavy wooden thing closer to the fire to soak up its warmth.  
  
He’s not sure what’s become of his letter opener... (There is another memory tickling the back of his mind – a young man who may or may have not looked like the _cabrero_ and Spain’s silver letter opener plunging through his eye until the orb collapses with a satisfying squelch and the body slumps over onto the floor, no more than a sack of meat and guts. But Spain pushes that one away too.)  
  
He picks up Prussia’s missive first, pulling a dagger out from his boot to open it since his letter opener has gone missing. The postmark on the front is from last week; he has fallen behind on his mail again, hasn’t he? Shaking his head with a wry chuckle he opens the letter, olive green eyes scanning quickly over the contents. As he reads, he reaches for his lunch – a bit of crumbly cheese and some cold, roasted lamb.  
  
Well, that explains why France hasn’t written lately, he thinks as he finishes, and stretches with both arms reaching out behind him so that his shoulders pop. He tosses Prussia’s letter back onto the pile and picks up Romano’s, tapping the envelope against his lip. He doesn’t open it, instead sliding the dagger back into its sheath in his boot.  
  
A deep inhale reveals that the envelope still manages to smell of spices – oregano and garlic and basil, and all the others Romano puts in his precious tomato sauces. Spain breathes it in, catches the sharp tang of gunpowder mixed in among them, and smiles. He tucks the letter into his shirt and stands, leaving the others unopened and unread. They are not the first correspondences he’s received from the rest of Europe, and he can guess what they will say. Party invitations, to the biggest party in the world.  
  
He’s not the only nation to receive such an invitation of course. America has failed to RSVP as well, he has heard. How that must gall England... The thought of it causes his small grin to burst out into a sunny smile. He sweeps the letters from the table onto the fire and waits a minute for them to burn before kicking the fire out.  
  
Spain is afraid he won’t be able to attend either, although he has dearly loved such dances in the past. His current boss is a busy man, and he has far too much work to do here. The beads on the floor clatter against the kitchen tiles and he frowns down at them. He really should get those cleaned up, but he is so tired. Surely the Lord will understand. Of course he will. He often spoke about going after the lost sheep, and Spain has a large flock to tend.  
  
A bottle of sherry sits on the windowsill, a light cover of dust fogging the pine-colored glass. Specks of the dust dance in the rays of sunlight that fall through the window. Spain wipes it off with a kitchen towel and pours himself a glass, tossing it down his throat. As the drink burns its way pleasantly down to his stomach, he retrieves his pistol belt and buckles it about his waist. There is so much to do, and the siesta not nearly long enough.  
  
He takes the bottle with him, scooping his jacket off a hook and shrugging into it one-handed. Pausing at the door, Spain takes one more look at the empty, sun-filled kitchen, at the scattering of beads, the half-eaten lunch, the empty glass. Something inside of him twitches just then, his expression failing momentarily. A stray breeze ruffles the curls of his hair, stirs the ashes in the fireplace. The coals buried under them glow bright a moment, then fade.  
  
Spain shivers, and takes a long swallow of sherry straight from the bottle. The smile returns to his face, and he pulls the door closed behind him.  
  
This time, he doesn’t look back.  
  
* _And now they’ve all gone back  
to the source that is more blue  
than anyone has ever seen...  
  
Because I wanted them so much,  
because I dreamt too hard,  
because I said all the wrong words,  
because I’ve worn out the consolation of prayers..._  
(Blue, Kind of – Eric Gamalinda)  
  
 **A/N:** I once heard the phrase “the land of sun and blood” used in reference to Spain, and now it’s one I can’t ever get out of my head.  
  
The Spanish civil war lasted from 17 July 1936 to 1 April 1939. At least 50,000 people were executed during this time. The “red terror” is credited with killing some 38,000, including many Catholic clergy (hence Spain’s thoughts about the rosary). The ensuing “white terror” under Franco (Spain’s new boss) claimed 200,000 lives. Although the numbers are somewhat disputed, a minimum of 37,843 executions were carried out in the Republican zone with a maximum of 150,000 executions (including 50,000 after the war) in Nationalist Spain.  
The Spanish Maquis was the guerilla resistance movement against Franco. Thousands were also jailed or subjected to forced labor under the merest suspicion of support for the resistance, or for being related to someone who did.  
  
WWII would break out in Europe in September 1939. Spain adopted a pro-Axis stance but refused official entry, preferring to concentrate of its domestic situation instead.  
  
[Eric Gamalinda](http://mysite.verizon.net/vzeslrlq/gamalinda/index.html)


End file.
